Communicate
by thecastortwin
Summary: roman and dean speak a language only they understand. ambreigns. oneshot. college au. fluff. angsty!roman and comforting!dean.


They had a secret language that was all their own.

It wasn't really anything elaborate or intricate. Dean and Roman had just developed it over the course of their relationship. They had been together since junior year in high school, and now they attended the same college, lived in the same apartment  
in New Orleans, and had their own means of attuning to each other's wavelengths without interruption. This was especially helpful for Dean, who always felt more inclined to shrug off his feelings.

It started this one night during their winter break. Roman had just returned from a weeklong trip to spend time with his family, leaving Dean alone in their apartment for the first leg of the vacation period. Roman knew that Dean missed him so much that  
he wanted to take his boyfriend on a date (After the steamy, loving, yet oh-so-naughty 'welcome back' sex, of course). Roman had suggested that they go to their usual date venue, the Ben & Jerry's ice cream parlor three blocks from their apartment.  
Dean however, had opted for IHOP. "For a change," he suggested, to which Roman happily obliged. Part of their chemistry was their willingness to adjust; whatever Dean wanted, Roman was all game for, and vice versa. But as they placed their orders  
to the IHOP waitress, the sandy blonde had, at the last minute, asked for ice cream.

Their dates on the following nights were similar – "Italian for dinner?" Roman would offer, but Dean would rather "Asian," and later buy Cecconi's for himself after a half-hearted order of dumplings. An offer of "jelly beans?" was denied in favor of "sour  
pretzels," but later Roman found jelly beans and gummy worms on Dean's bedside table.

Eventually, Roman realized Dean was upset that he had no family to spend Christmas with. Dean had lived alone most of his life, after escaping from his toxic foster family in Ohio. And while he was happy Roman was with him, he wished he had a family to  
come home to during the summer and winter breaks. The Samoan was upset initially – "You can be honest with me about what you feel, babe. Why couldn't you tell me you were lonely?" – but later on accepted that Dean is too stubborn to open up as easily  
as he would want; he'd have to adjust.

The next time Roman sensed Dean was off, he had a vague idea of what he was supposed to do. Roman asked what he wanted for dinner, suggesting "take out? How does Mexican sound?" but Dean opted to re-heat their leftovers. Twenty minutes into stale mac  
and cheese, the doorbell rang with fresh orders of Taco Bell. "Cheese quesadillas for one Dean Ambrose," said the delivery guy, adding, "Your boyfriend hopes you feel better soon." Dean was in mild shock. "Jeez, Ro… I, uh, h-how'd you know?" the sandy  
blonde asked. "You're too obstinate," the Samoan chuckled. "Now tell me what's wrong."

From there, Roman and Dean had formulated their own way of conveying what they feel to each other, in a manner exclusive to them. And because they didn't want the inconvenience of having to wait for the next meal to figure out if they were okay, they  
simplified the rules of their game: word association, in a nutshell. Roman could ask, "waffles?" and Dean would reply "pancakes!" if he was happy, or even if nothing was wrong. Adversely, if something like "raspberry?" was met with "nachos," that  
was a sign something was off.

It was their little thing. Something Roman reveled in more than he would let on. A little connection between himself and Dean that only they would truly understand.

Dean noticed Roman had been quite off recently. The Samoan had no shortage of supply inhugs and other affectionate things he usually did with Dean, but the sandy blonde for the past two weeks felt something… different.

It all felt… mechanical.

"How was the taping you had the other day?" Dean asked one Tuesday morning. Roman was taking up broadcast journalism. He and his colleagues would regularly create online content, which Roman helped produce on the regular. This particular taping was for  
the seventh episode of a web series they were making. Dean would pitch in every now and then, when he would be blowing off electives like American Government. Or Elements of Chemistry (Criminal Justice Majors didn't really need them, he figured).

"It was… good, I guess," Roman replied absentmindedly. He seemed a little lost in the circular motions of Dean stirring sugar and half-and-half into his morning coffee. "So was this the last scene for this episode, or…?" Dean tried. Roman was still lost  
in his thoughts.

"Ro."

"Yeah, babe?"

"…Are you okay?"

Roman chuckled. "I'm fine, Deano. Sorry, I'm just…" He trailed off, virtually forgetting he even tried to explain himself at all. Dean sipped his coffee, before he stood up to get ready for the rest of his day. "Gotta get goin' Ro. Org Management at 1.  
See you at 7, 'kay?"

Roman stood by the counter, hunched his pancakes, twirling his fork over a strawberry slice. Silence from the Samoan, drowned deep in thought. Dean shrugged it off, running off to his room to get ready for the day. Slipping on his leather jacket over  
a white tee, he opened the door to their apartment, about to head out, before he stuck his head back in and called, "Hey, babe?"

"Yeah?" Roman responded.

"Apples?"

A pause.

"…Bananas."

Something was definitely off, he just knew it.

Dean was inscrutible. Unreadable, with one of the most impenetrable poker faces known to man. But the last thing he would be is oblivious.

Roman may think he could hide it from Dean, but the sandy blonde knew very well something was up. And he, quite frankly, found it a bit insulting to his intelligence that Roman thought he could fool Dean into thinking he was okay. Not to mention it was  
a complete dishonor to their personal code of communication; why have a secret language telling your boyfriend whether or not you're okay, if you won't even abide by it? It kinda hurt Dean, but he shrugged it off. He would figure this out, one way  
or another.

Neither of them had class the following Thursday. Roman's only professor had announced his absence, due to a trip to the emergency room – "He probably landed on his balls or something," He chuckled when he got off the phone with his classmate, Kevin –  
so Dean proposed a lunch date.

"C'mon, Ro," he said. "It'll be good. C'mon! I've been cravin' pizza lately, y'know?" Dean was bouncing on the balls of his feet, a little more excited than he should've been about _pizza_ , of all things. "I was on YouTube last night, y'know, and.  
Y'know BuzzFeed, right, Ro? Those 'Tasty' recipe videos they make? Jesus Christ, babe, they had this pizza-bread-thing, I dunno what the hell was going on there, but it was just drowning in cheese, and I've been craving it since…" Dean trailed off,  
realizing Roman had been half-grinning the whole time he rambled about a YouTube clip, but his eyes had wandered off to some corner of the horizon. "Ro. You okay, man?" He placed a firm hand on his shoulder, comforting, reassuring. Roman returned  
to earth in a split second, beaming at Dean with a quick, dismissive, "Yeah! Yeah, babe, let's go."

Inside the pizza parlor, Dean impatiently ushered Roman into one of the window seats. "Babe, I got it," he said. "I know your usual," and hurried off to the counters to order. He left a bewildered Samoan next to the a gorgeous window view of a dessert  
valley next to them, which was good because Dean needed him distracted. He had a plan.

"So you ordered an 18-inch classic pepperoni pizza, and an 18-inch onion, mushroom, and chorizo, pizza?" The cashier, Bayley, smiled at Dean. A warm, shockingly bright beam of happiness. Dean figured he liked this girl, and more people who worked in customer  
service could follow her example. "Yeap, tha's about it," he said.

"Alright! Your total is $22.35. Would you like pineapples, Sir?" To which the sandy blonde's response was, "Let me check with my boyfriend."

He turned the corner and called to Roman from afar. "Ro!" The Samoan, once again lost both in thought and in the view of the desert valley outside the window, flinched and searched for Dean's general direction. "Pineapples?"

Roman absentmindedly replied, "Nah, man. Anchovies."

 _Bingo._

"Alright, cool."

Dean returned to a still-smiling Bayley gushing at her customer's consideration for his boyfriend. "That's so cute!" She cooed. "So, does Mr. Right want pineapples on his pizza?"

"Mr. _Reigns_ , actually, would like anchovies. _I_ will take the pineapples instead."

The rest of the date went well. Dean chose not to push Roman's quietness anymore than he normally would. He didn't need to, because he got what he needed.

Before they left the parlor, Dean left Bayley a big tip. He was thankful for the satisfied cravings.

And the fact that Roman had a slice of Dean's pineapple-pepperoni pizza.

Dean spent his Friday evening at his best friend Sami's. They were celebrating the latter's birthday, in a loud, raging party that rivaled the frat parties held three blocks down from his and Roman's apartment. While it was a fun night of catching up  
with his childhood friend and ranting to each other about relationship and adulthood woes, Dean missed going wild with his boyfriend. So after the seventh person choked on an upside-down beer keg stunt, a mildly inebriated Dean bid goodbye to Sami  
and took an Uber home.

After slipping quietly into their apartment and dropping his leather jacket on the couch, Dean shimmied out of his jeans and slipped under the covers beside Roman. Disappointed that he wasn't greeted with a sleepy kiss and spooning from behind, he scootched  
over to spoon Roman himself.

"Hey babe," He whispered. A long quiet greeted him in return.

"Ro." He began trailing kisses up the Samoan's neck, brushing his raven hair aside so he could nuzzle into Roman's stubble. He placed a kiss on Roman's cheek and savoring the feeling of…

…Water on his lips and nose, with the slight taste of salt.

"Roman?"

Roman pulled further away, a quiet but sharp inhale failing to mask the sound of runny climbing back into his nose. Dean was ultimately more concerned now, alertness brushing aside the slight haze of inebriation so he could tend to his boyfriend.

He wrapped his arms around Roman's waist, burying his face in between the bigger man's shoulder blades. He breathed in deeply, both to inhale Roman's scent and to stabilize himself before attempting to comfort his boyfriend.

"Roman, I," Dean began. "I know you're awake."

The bed shifted a little. "Hey Deano," Roman croaked.

"H-hi, babe." Another long silence, before Dean asked, "…Wine?"

"Whiskey," Roman murmured.

"Mercedes?"

"…Volkswagen."

"Bullshit, Ro. Nike?"

"Adidas."

Dean gripped him a little tighter; a little more desperate, but with some silent declaration of assurance. _"Pineapples?"_ Dean asked.

The smaller man felt Roman's breath hitch, and another long silence followed before finally, "…Anchovies."

Dean released his hold from around Roman's waist and pulled the Samoan's shoulder down so he could ease his head onto his chest. "Talk t'me, Ro," Dean whispered. "I-I can't fix what I don't know," he tried. He was a little desperate for words, not really  
knowing how to be comforting. He never really thought to follow the Samoan's example in empathy; Dean was more of the type to buy Roman his favorite junk food on a whim; or surprise him with DVD copies of his favorite movies. This time called for  
a more direct approach, however, and if Dean was being honest… it terrified him.

But Roman needed him, and hell if he wasn't gonna be there for him the way Roman always was.

"Ro… I dunno how to make y'feel better, but if it helps, I still remember the day we first moved in," Dean began, not really sure where he was going with what he was saying. "You'd always be so anal about the furniture and where everything went, and all  
the utensils bein' in the right places 'n all o'that shit, I-" Dean's voice cracked a little. "At first, I really couldn't give a damn at all, t'be honest with you, but you were just so patient with me an' all. Like, when y'tried to explain why we  
couldn't use the cups to store the spoons and forks, like. I still think it was a genius life hack'r somethin' but. You never even really lost your cool with me, y'know? And, I-I dunno what I'm even tryin' to say here, man," Dean breathed in, a sharp,  
shuddering breath. "But whatever y'need, I'm right here for ya. And I'll wait for as long as y' need me to, but I promise. It's not gonna help ya at all to keep all this shit to yourself." He held on a little tighter Roman, whose eyes remained closed,  
but still with a line of tears running down the side of his face into his hair. "I love you, Ro," Dean said.

The sandy blonde relaxed, eyes fluttering shut when Roman shifted their positions so he could hold Dean protectively in his arms.

"I didn't get in," Roman finally broke his silence. Dean shifted his position in their hold just a little, so he could look at his boyfriend's face. "Get in where?" Dean asked?

"I applied for a job," Roman explained, voice still low and cracking as he spoke. "Segment producer. An online section of an upcoming show on MTV? I didn't get the job." The bigger man wiped tears away from his face in an attempt to compose himself. "T'wasn't  
for me, I guess, haha. This guy's sick production skills and know-how were probably too for their shitty project," Roman chuckled, trying desperately hard to sound like he didn't care, but his voice ultimately betrayed him. It broke Dean to see Roman  
like this.

"Ro… Y'know you can't lie t'me, right?" Dean asked. He buried his face into Roman's shoulder, arms wrapping a little more snugly against the Samoan's neck. "Talk to me. C'mon. No bullshit."

Roman sighed, lifting his right arm so he could rest his wrist over the bridge of his nose, effectively shielding his eyes from anymore tear flow, and possible eye contact with the sandy blonde. "I wanted the job so badly, Dean." He started. "The doors  
it would open, you know? It was a project in its beginning stages, so if things went well, I could be associated with a successful name; not to mention the connections it could afford. MTV, babe. MTV…" He trailed off, another harsh sniffle following  
shortly after. "I was so set, babe… I would get the job, we would find ways to relocate to California, live in some high-rise condo in Beverly Hills. I was such an idiot for having pictured the perfect life before I even got there…"

When he heard this, Dean frowned, and pulled Roman's arm away from his face. "Hey. Stop. That's fucked up, Ro. You know it." He climbed further up Roman's torso, properly straddling the Samoan man's treetrunk waist so he could fix his palms on the other's  
chest and rest his forehead against Roman's. "Y'know what's fucked up? That you're beatin' yourself up for dreaming of exactly what you want. You know _exactly_ what you want, and you're not an idiot for wanting it." The sandy blonde let himself  
babble, not really knowing where he was going either. All this lovey-dovey comforting shit was really more Roman's speed. But something about the Samoan beating himself up for wanting something this bad… It seemed criminal. It broke Dean to see him  
like this.

"You know exactly what you want," He continued, "Go get it. This door's been slammed in your face? Flip 'em off and look for a back door. Find other ways. I'll help you drill a hole in the wall if y'need me to, Ro! Just…" A pause. What even was he trying  
to say? "You get what you want, Ro. It's… It's why I was drawn to ya, y'know? It's why we're here." He pressed a quick peck on the Samoan's lips, and knitted his fingers into Roman's. "Be upset that you didn't get the job, Ro. That's fine. But y'  
don't beat yourself up for wanting something good in life," He said. "Be upset for a while. Be confused, maybe. Or be angry! I like my Roman angry…"

Roman stared up at the sandy blonde, in this otherwise compromising and potentially suggestive position, but found himself in awe of the smaller man. He sniffled once more, wiped his face of tears, and smiled. Dean beamed a little, relieved that he somehow  
made his boyfriend feel a little better.

To his surprise, Roman flipped their positions, Dean suddenly buried underneath a 250-pound man burrowing his face into the crook of Dean's neck and shoulder. He smiled, wrapping his arms around Roman's shoulders and rubbing small circles into the wide  
of the other man's back with his palms. He inhaled the scent of Roman's hair before pressing a kiss onto his head.

"Dean… what do I do?"

"There're other companies. Other jobs, other positions…"

"I like this position," Roman pouted.

"There're other types of producers ri—"

"I mean the position we're in now."

Dean smacked his palm lightly on Roman's shoulder. "Other media outlets. The industry you're getting into is huge."

"Like me?" Roman offered.

Dean smiled, the apples of his cheeks forming big and dimples forming prominently underneath. "Fuck you, Ro." He snuggled in closer. "Love you." "Love you too," Roman replied, muffled by Dean's shoulder.

They stayed still in this position, holding each other tight and reveling in each others' body heat, their breathing in sync. It was a warm, silent comfort. Both men were too overwhelmed in their new affectionate atmosphere to let sexual tension disrupt  
them, despite their current position on the bed. Roman was on the verge of falling asleep, before…

"Ro," Dean began.

"Mm," Roman replied.

"Apples?"

The raven haired man smiled; the first real, relieved, reassured smile he had in a long while.

"Bananas."

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone for reading! This is probably the longest one-shot I've written so far.

My inspiration for this fic was my aunt and uncle, who would do the same thing Dean and Roman are doing here. It was a fitting prompt, and had had the idea for quite a while.

I apologize for the inaccurate little details here like the college courses, jobs, and other things in here! Part of me was bullshitting all of that, because I was a little more focused on Ambreigns and the prompt. I hope the discrepancies aren't too  
distracting.

To everyone who reads and enjoys my work, thank you for reviewing and sharing and even just appreciating my writing. Writing Ambreigns fan fiction has been one of the most validating things I've ever done as a creative person, it helps me be productive  
in my pathetic pining for a relationship. It helps me see things in perspective, and allows me to be honest about the little things I imagine myself doing with anybody I might one day call a lover. It's very helpful to my personal growth, and it helps  
that you appreciate the steps I take to uplift myself.

The song I was listening to on repeat while writing this was Perfect by One Direction. Not really connected, I know, but the production of the song is good.

Comments and reviews are very much appreciated! Thank you!


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